


Those Sleepless Nights

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward First Times, Demisexual Daryl Dixon, During Canon, Eating Disorders, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, M/M, Oblivious Daryl Dixon, Premature Ejaculation, References to Depression, Virgin Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-06-30 03:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19844575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Daryl hasn't slept in a very long time. He's running on fumes, and he knows it's only a matter of time before his body gives out.Fortunately, Rick offers a solution.





	1. The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm writing many things simultaneously and hate all of them, I started another thing. This thing. It's just a silly thing that's an excuse for porn in later chapters. I hope it's enjoyable.

Daryl hasn’t really slept through an entire night in… weeks, he thinks, but it might’ve actually been months. It’s difficult to keep track when days and nights become a blur of constant danger. He doesn’t know how long the group had been on the road since losing Beth. He wonders and, yeah, the last time he remembers he had any sleep at all was back in that temporary housing building in Atlanta: he had a nap while Carol stood watch. Two hours, maybe. Probably less. 

Not a wink since then. He couldn’t, and not for the lack of trying. 

He’s been running on fumes for so long. It wasn’t only the lack of sleep. Food had been scarce on the road and Daryl made sure to only eat as much as his body absolutely required so that he wouldn’t become a burden on the others. He ate worms and dandelion leaves, and it was all fucking disgusting but at least it meant he didn’t have to take away from the group’s meager supplies. He only threw up a few times, and his stomach didn’t even hurt after that first time. 

Rick tried to reason with him, tried to call him out - called it  _ self-harm _ , called it  _ survivor’s guilt _ , but what the fuck did he know? Eventually he gave up, stopped talking about it, he just stopped caring, and that was all fine. Daryl didn’t need that shit. He didn’t need Rick worrying about him like he was anything worth being worried about. He wasn’t.

He isn’t. 

Alexandria, he grudgingly admits, is as safe as any place can hope to be in this world. It’s got these walls and shit, and the houses, and a damn lake - pond, whatever the hell it is - and everyone just settles right in. They live in two houses now, and Rick’s all respectable, he and Michonne, two constables, and Daryl doesn’t really belong, but whatever, he can make it work. He can. Because Carol says she counts on him, and he’d never disappoint her. Because Judith giggles when he lets her play with his hair. Because Carl comes to tell him how he spent the day, every evening without fail. Because Michonne makes him mint tea every morning when she’s making coffee for herself. Because Rick still asks for his input when he’s got a decision to make, and. Yeah, Daryl can work himself out, can make himself fit in here, if only for his family.

Thing is, he’s not… he’s not alright, and it pisses him off.

_ Yer such a fuckin’ pussy _ , Merle’s ghost tells him in the dark, cold hours right before dawn, and yeah, he can’t exactly disagree. They’ve been in Alexandria for well over four weeks, according to the calendar on the kitchen wall, and he still hasn’t slept. At first, he spent the nights on the porch, trying to be productive where he knew he couldn’t sleep; but by now, he’s out of ideas: he’s sharpened all knives he owns and those he took from others, made himself enough bolts for the crossbow to last him an entire winter, carved a few clumsy animal figurines for the lil’ ass-kicker out of the wood blocks lying around. And anyway, it’s become colder recently, so finally he’s moved into the house and claimed the couch in the living room as his bed. 

“You could take the bedroom next to mine,” Michonne suggested at first, but Daryl shrugged it off. He doesn’t need a bedroom because he doesn’t sleep and he doesn’t have any shit he’d need stored. The couch is a good vantage point to observe the front door from and it’s kind of comfortable, so he can almost relax when he keeps watch in the dark. He even naps, sometimes, short little bursts of sleep that last for a few minutes before he’s wide awake again. They’re probably the only reason he’s still able to somehow go on.

He’s curious if exhaustion will finally catch up with him. If he crashes and just collapses one day, or if his body’s going to just keep continue to function until it shuts down. He doesn’t particularly like either option, but it’s not like he’s capable of doing anything about it. 

It’s not like he doesn’t want to sleep. He just can’t.

At least he’s eating, three meals a day like a respectable damn family man. They have powdered milk and Carol’s made corn flakes, because apparently it’s pretty easy to make cereal out of water, corn flour and sugar; so it’s cereal with milk for breakfast every day, and it’s fine, it’s light and definitely tastier than dandelion leaves. Lunches vary, sometimes it’s sandwiches - and Daryl can’t even say how much he appreciates bread after all the time it wasn’t available - other times it’s something warm, and either way, it’s good. But dinners are difficult. Apparently Daryl’s stomach is fucked up because it just doesn’t accept much of real food anymore. That time he had dinner at Aaron and Eric’s place, he spent the entire night hugging the damn perimeter wall, throwing up everything he’d so greedily eaten that evening. 

Carol thinks it’s because he can no longer tell when to stop.

“You don’t feel hunger anymore,” she explained, “so your brain also doesn’t know if you’re full because you’re not hungry in the first place. Don’t worry. It’ll pass. You’ll just have to take it easy for the time being.”

So he eats small portions and it’s better. He hasn’t thrown up food since that unfortunate spaghetti, and he thinks his body might be fixing itself. He still doesn’t get hungry, but lately he’s noticed that clothes fit him better. Like maybe he’s not just skin and bones and ridiculous hard muscle. Like he’s becoming human-shaped again.

But he doesn’t sleep, so really, he’s not sure how long that’ll last.

With a sigh, he buries himself deeper into the cocoon of blankets he’s wrapped in. He’s been getting cold easily. It’s probably due to exhaustion. Michonne lent him the blankets from her bedroom, she said she doesn’t need them yet. Daryl wonders if the storage room has any spare blankets because he can’t imagine giving these back. He’s barely warm enough as it is. He doesn’t think it’s got a lot to do with the outside temperatures which are likely still in the sixties, maybe seventies. It’s only September, after all, and even if Virginia isn’t the same climate as Georgia, well, the weather doesn’t get really cold until late October. At least according to Eric.

To Daryl, now’s fucking cold. 

“They’ve got sleeping pills in the infirmary,” Rick says in a low voice that’s barely above a whisper, but still sounds booming in the silent house. Daryl almost jumps because he hasn’t heard the man coming down; and if he’s too out of it to hear  _ Rick Grimes _ stomping around the house, how the hell is he going to stop any intruders in case there are any?

“Fuck, man,” he grunts, “you picked a helluva time to finally learn to walk quiet.”

Rick chuckles and moves to the couch in a few strides. His steps are actually less audible than they used to be. He’s barefoot, Daryl notices when the man sits on the edge of the couch next to where Daryl’s feet are. Might be why he’s managed to be so sneaky.

There’s some gray, pre-dawn light falling into the room from the windows. It’s almost morning. Daryl wonders why Rick isn’t asleep. 

“I could request some, for you,” Rick says and when Daryl looks at him, confused, he clarifies, “The sleeping pills. You still haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

“Don’t need no meds,” Daryl mutters, looking down at the floral pattern on one of his blankets. The flowers are blue. It doesn’t matter shit.

“We both know it ain’t true,” Rick replies seriously. “Daryl, it’s not a weakness to admit you need help. Even the toughest people sometimes face problems they can’t deal with on their own.”

“‘s not that,” Daryl says, and he bites on his lower lip. “My ma, she… When I’s a kid, dunno, two or three, she woulda feed me sleepin’ pills so I’d just. Sleep all day. Ain’t been a bad kid or nothin’, she jus’ didn’t wanna deal with a kid askin’ stuff an’ botherin’ her, I guess. Thing is, it got me addicted, yea? Fucked up my sleepin’ patterns or some shit, I couldna got sleepin’ without them pills at all. Merle was pissed when he found out, but it was sorta too late? I was seven when he saw, an’ he got me to quit, an’ well. He gave me whiskey to get me to sleep instead, an’ eventually it got better. But now ‘s back.”

“Your mother medicated you for so many years and nobody noticed?” Rick asks, a little incredulous, the naive fucker with his stupid belief that the world before the dead started walking was all cookies and milk for everyone; and Daryl can’t help but chuckle humorlessly.

“School ain’t gave a fuck,” he says, “schools the likes of me gone to ain’t exactly prestigious for shit. My daddy been a piece of work himself, done a number on me, so why’d he care? Had nobody but Merle, an’ Merle ain’t even been there at the time, he fucked off to our uncle in Texas. Not everyone’s gotta nice life, man, sure as fuck not them dumb redneck trash like me.”

“You’re not trash,” Rick protests firmly. 

Daryl just shrugs because he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t want to say it. He knows how Rick gets. It’s the man’s protective streak. How wild is it that this protectiveness even extends to a guy like Daryl? Rick Grimes is really something else. 

Thankfully, Rick doesn’t push the subject. They’ve had this conversation so many times already and frankly, Daryl’s too tired for it right now. He’s got no energy to argue. If leaving Rick’s claim uncontested means he’s going to let it go this time, fuck, Daryl’s not saying a word.

“So, no sleeping pills,” Rick concludes. “I’m also not too happy ‘bout getting you drunk, not when you’re not eating normal just yet. What’s that leave us with?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I got no idea,” he assures. “Tried chamomile an’ lemon balm tea, ain’t helped shit but tasted kinda nice. We still got some if y’need to get all nice an’ relaxed for shit. Uh, wearin’ m’self out ain’t gonna work neither, been doin’ that since forever an’ I still ain’t sleepin’. So. Any idea yer havin’, I probably done it already.”

Rick hums thoughtfully, and Daryl squints at him suspiciously. Why’s Rick suddenly bothering with Daryl’s insomnia, anyway? He didn’t use to act like he cared much before, definitely not since they arrived here. Maybe someone said something to him. Cast doubt on whether Daryl’s still useful when he’s this exhausted. That must be it. 

“Most guys fall asleep instantly after a good orgasm,” Rick says finally, and there’s something like a smile on his face, all encouraging and shit, and Daryl thinks he might actually be dreaming because. In what kinda world does Rick  _ fucking _ Grimes start spouting shit about  _ orgasms _ to Daryl Dixon of all people?

And the guy goes on, still with that encouraging little smile. “You tried jerking off? I know the circumstances weren’t exactly conductive to it when we were on the road, but we’re safe here, so maybe you should give it a go. I get it if you’re awkward doing it in the living room, and you didn’t want your own bedroom, so you’re free to use mine. I was about to go for a little night walk around the perimeter anyway.”

Is this normal? Is this the sort of thing dudes talk to each other about? Did Rick use to discuss jerking off with Shane back in the day? And what the hell is up with that offer, who the fuck offers another guy their room to  _ masturbate in _ ? Fuck, Merle would’ve sooner killed him than suggested Daryl rub one out in his bedroom. Normal guys don’t do that, they just… don’t. Although apparently, Rick Grimes does, and while he’s probably not exactly normal, he’s as close to it as it gets nowadays.

So, this must be a dream. A really weird, fucked up kind of dream. 

“Daryl?” Rick asks, and Daryl exhales loudly like he’s in pain.

“... ‘s almost morning anyway,” he mutters, and he’s pretty sure the pre-dawn gloom does nothing to hide the bright red blush on his face. “Gotta get up soon.”

Rick licks his lips and nods. “You’re right,” he agrees and rises. “Think about it, though,” he adds before he heads to the kitchen. He’s not very noisy as he makes himself a coffee, but Daryl can still hear every sound: the pot hissing when the water boils, the clinking of the spoon as Rick adds sugar, the catchy melody the man whistles under his breath. There’s some shuffling, some other noises and then Daryl watches Rick walk to the front door and go outside, like he said he would. He gives Daryl a little wave before he leaves. 

And Daryl thinks about it. About that suggestion and about Rick’s weird-ass offer, and. Yeah, he sort of can’t stop thinking about it. He gets out of bed soon after Rick’s left and goes about his day, starting with breakfast, a shower - Carol’s threatened to use the hose on him if he doesn’t clean up regularly, and apparently  _ regularly _ means  _ every day _ to these people - and some babysitting of little Judith. Later, he drops the toddler off at Eric and Aaron’s place as he goes to work on the bikes in their garage, and. He still thinks about it. About Rick’s offer. 

His most prevalent thought on the matter is still  _ what the fuck _ , and maybe it’s his over-exhausted brain jumping to conclusions, but like. It sounded like the offer was open, like he could take Rick up on it at any time. How’s that supposed to work? Should he march into Rick’s bedroom at night, tell the man to fuck right off to the bathroom or something, then do the deed… like, where, standing in a corner, sitting on a random chair? Or perhaps on Rick’s bed? That’s gay. Rick’s not gay. He probably didn’t mean it like that.

But then, how the hell did he mean it?

“Fuck this goddamn fuckin’ shit,” Daryl groans and then curses when one of the screws he was attempting to gently loosen breaks in half due to rust. 

It’s a problem is what it is, that stupid-ass offer. It’s been… fuck,  _ years _ since Daryl’s even needed to get off, he doesn’t remember ever having done it after the dead started walking. Merle used to think he was a faggot because all of the girlie mags he pushed on Daryl did nothing for him, but that’s not what it is because gay porn’s of no real interest to him either. He’s long since come to terms with the truth that he’s got low libido. He’s not completely like, broken or impotent, nothing like that, it’s just that he generally doesn’t think about sex all that much. He can get turned on if he wants to and he used to jerk off a lot as a teen, though not to fantasies of people, like, models or shit, more to the general thoughts of sex and having sex, and it’s just that. How he works. He doesn’t really care about that stuff, and he doesn’t look at people and see, like, someone he’d potentially want to fuck. 

Except, he thinks he’d potentially want to fuck Rick and, yeah, it’s a problem.

Great. So yesterday his biggest concern was that he couldn’t sleep and his body might give out on him at any moment. Today, that concern’s still relevant, but it’s also somewhat less vivid in the face of the fact that Daryl’s hitherto barely-existent sexuality decided to up and awaken at the least convenient time, directed at the most off-limits person in the world.

“Just fuckin’ peachy,” Daryl mutters, scanning the workbench for the wrench he needs, in the right size. Of course, it’s not there, because the universe is Like That sometimes. With a sigh, Daryl picks up the slightly smaller wrench and a metal file with the intention of adjusting the tool to fit.

“You okay in here?” Aaron asks, sticking his head into the garage right before Daryl rubs the file against the metal of the wrench, drawing out a horrible whining-squealing-whistling noise of metal grinding on metal. It’s the worst.

“Doesn’t sound okay,” Aaron decides with a wince and lets himself in. He takes a seat at the stool, seeing as Daryl’s comfortable crouched on the floor, and he does his best to look sympathetic. “If you need to talk to someone…”

“Rick done invited me to jack off in his bedroom,” Daryl says, and he thinks he probably shouldn’t have done that. It just spilled out. It’s not Daryl’s fault, not really. Aaron’s got those earnest eyes or something, it just makes Daryl want to tell him all his secrets like a twelve-year-old girl at her first sleepover. What the hell.

“... okay. That’s. Great?” Aaron replies and reaches out with his hand like he wants to pat Daryl on the shoulder. Daryl glares at him. Aaron drops his arm. He coughs to clear his throat, then adds, “Didn’t know you two were-”

“We ain’t,” Daryl says very firmly, because he feels he needs to establish this once and for all. He goes back to filing the wrench, but stops because it’s not working. Or rather, it is, but it’s not fast enough. He’s got no patience for this shit. 

“You ain’t… what, exactly?” Aaron asks and very valiantly pretends not to flinch when Daryl throws the unsuitable wrench back to the workbench. 

“Me an’ Rick, we ain’t gay,” Daryl clarifies. “So whatever you’s thinkin’, don’t.”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna imply you were,” Aaron says, “you don’t have to be gay to. You know, be with a man. I’ve known some bisexuals before-”

“Ain’t that, neither,” Daryl snaps. Then, because Aaron’s still looking at him like Daryl’s personally responsible for the death of his favorite puppy, he feels obligated to admit: “Ain’t straight, though, I don’t think. Not me. Rick’s probably straighter ‘n an arrow.”

Aaron nods. “Alright, I can work with that. I don’t suppose you’d like to give me some more context? For example, about the circumstances of Rick’s… invitation?”

Daryl rolls his eyes and mumbles a very rude insult under his breath. He’s pretty sure Aaron’s heard it and is only letting it slide because it can be argued the insult is directed at the rusted-off broken screw stuck in the wheel rim Daryl’s trying not to glare at. 

“Daryl? You know I can’t give you advice when I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Fine, whatever,” Daryl grumbles. “I ain’t been sleepin’. Like, at all. For weeks, months maybe. Can’t do sleepin’ pills, can’t do booze. I’m so fuckin’ tired all the time, y’all ain’t got no idea. So last night, or uh, dunno, this mornin’? Rick suggested I gotta jack off an’ it might just wear me out enough to sleep.”

“Well, men do tend to fall asleep quickly, usually right after an orgasm,” Aaron agrees thoughtfully. 

Daryl frowns. Is that common knowledge or something? Some trivia shit people hear about from TV? How come he didn’t know that? 

“He said I could use his room ‘cause, well, I sleep on the couch in the livin’ room. So if I don’t wanna get caught. Or shit,” he shrugs. “But shit’s not normal, right? It ain’t just me? Like, guys don’t normally make such offers, right?”

Aaron shakes his head. “They don’t,” he admits. “If I ever made you that sort of offer, that’d be because I wanted to watch you do it. Not that, not that I do,” he adds quickly, eyes widening like he’s afraid Daryl might punch him for the implication. 

But Daryl only half-listens when Aaron babbles on about how he obviously thinks Daryl’s an attractive man, because he has eyes and people with eyes can  _ obviously _ see how attractive Daryl is, but that doesn’t mean anything and Aaron’s not trying to insinuate anything, and he’s certainly not out to seduce him, God forbid, he never wanted to come across as someone who’d do that, even though Eric wouldn’t mind it if Daryl was ever interested in joining them in the bedroom, or-

No, Daryl’s not really listening, because he’s got more important things to consider:

“So yer sayin’ Rick wants to watch me doin’ it?” 

Aaron looks at him like he’s not sure if he should confirm, deny or just flee as fast as he can, but Daryl ignores his reaction anyway. He stares at the broken screw like it holds answers to all the questions in the universe. Questions like,  _ is Rick like that,  _ and  _ why would he want to look at me of all people,  _ and even  _ do I want to do that with Rick watching me? _

At least the answer to the last one is sort of glaringly obvious: he’s blushing and his jeans are conspicuously tight in the crotch area. He’s definitely not adverse to the idea of Rick watching. He’s actually rather eager to do it, and he supposes he should give it more thought, maybe examine these feelings deeper, but he’s just too damn exhausted. And anyway, why overthink something that’s really simple, right?

Tonight. He’s gonna take Rick up on the offer tonight. And then maybe he’ll be able to sleep.


	2. The Anticipation

Making a life-changing decision is so much easier than acting on it, Daryl finds out that afternoon. He barely manages to finish his lunch of rice with sweet applesauce, he’s so nervous, and he can’t shake off the feeling that everyone is staring at him suspiciously. It’s like he’s got a bright neon sign stuck to his face, reading some shit like _Daryl Dixon’s gonna possibly maybe bang Rick Grimes_ , and while he’s reasonably sure nobody can really tell what he’s thinking, he also doesn’t know how reasonable exactly a man can be without sleep. At least he’s one hundred percent certain Aaron didn’t come around, babbling all kinds of shit about other people’s business, because he believes the guy’s somewhat trustworthy. Also, he kept an eye on him when working in the garage, so there’s that. So really, there’s no way anyone can guess what Daryl’s hoping to do tonight and with whom.

He’s probably just being delusional. Nothing new about it. He tends to talk to hallucinations of his dead asshole of a brother at an alarming frequency, after all. 

“You’ve got a little something here,” Rick says from across the table, motioning to the tip of his nose. 

Daryl looks at him blankly, and Rick chuckles before reaching out and rubbing at Daryl’s nose with his thumb, succeeding only in smearing some of the sticky applesauce around instead of wiping it off. His hands are warm, Daryl notes contentedly and doesn’t really mind the stickiness on the tip of his nose. He sighs softly and his eyes slide shut as he leans into the touch for a second before he remembers he’s still at the dinner table in the room with other people. Other people who are undoubtedly staring at him like he’s done something really weird just now. He doesn’t check if they do. If that makes him a coward, alright, so be it.

“Uh, thanks,” he mutters and quickly scrambles to his feet. “Gotta, well, go. Out. Look at some walls.”

He’s not awkward, he’s vigilant. He’s not escaping, he’s going to check the perimeter like a responsible protector of their family. Which, he is. _Well played, Daryl Dixon, you’re a damn redneck genius._

The wall looks about the same it always does. It’s sort of ugly, but it’s functional and sturdy. Daryl has a brief moment of some weird empathy when he feels exactly like that wall, but it passes too quickly to give it any more thought. He blames it all on the lack of sleep, like everything else, and he promptly forgets about it. He makes two rounds clockwise and then one more counterclockwise, and finally decides it’s safe to return home and like, count the bolts or clean everyone’s guns, or maybe fashion a little bow for Judith out of that nice supple piece of walnut wood he found a few days ago. Lil’ ass-kicker may only be two years old, give or take a few months, but in Daryl’s opinion, it’s never too early to weaponize. If he had his way, he’d have Judith ready to go out hunting with him by the time she’s five. No, not really. He wants her childhood to be happy and carefree and as fluffy as possible. Still, a bow wouldn’t hurt. He could make her some blunt-tipped arrows and stuff. She could shoot old tin cans or like, trees, or shit. He would teach her. It would be fun.

On his way back, Daryl happens to spot an opossum. It takes him a few moments to remember he hasn’t brought the crossbow along, like a loser. Who the hell goes anywhere without a weapon these days? Even within the walls, one can never know. Daryl frowns at his own lack of foresight, then glares as the opossum flees for its life. 

“Gonna get ya eventually,” Daryl calls after its retreating tail. Damn thing’s gonna become dinner sooner or later. After Daryl’s had some sleep. Which will be tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan. He just needs to talk to Rick. Tell him he’s gonna take him up on the offer. It’s simple. So simple. No reason at all to clam up and be all awkward and sulk and consider running away into the walker-infested forests of Virginia which, for one reason or another, seem less threatening than anywhere within the vicinity of Rick’s bedroom.

“Are you threatening some defenseless critter again?” Asks Rick, and God-fucking-dammit, he’s really getting fucking sneaky. Daryl hasn’t heard him until he started talking. It’s either the guy’s becoming a ninja without anyone being none the wiser, or Daryl’s attention is slipping. He’s gonna get gnawed on by a walker and he’s not gonna notice until he’s one of them himself, if he doesn’t do something about this lack of sleep situation. 

Good thing he’s already got a solution all ready and waiting to be implemented. Tonight.

“Yer seein’ defenseless critters, I’m seein’ potential barbecue,” he mutters, pretending he’s absolutely indifferent about Rick’s presence when in fact, he’s getting extremely worked up. 

_Very suave, Dixon, food’s the best y’can do_ , he sneers at himself mentally. _No wonder yer still a virgin at forty-five._

“Damn, I’d kill for some good barbecue,” Rick admits, groaning in pleasure at the thought. Daryl almost groans in pleasure as well, but barbecue’s got nothing to do with it. Nope, it’s all about the sound Rick’s made. It’s fucking sinful is what it is. Should be illegal. As soon as somebody decides to recreate the judicial system, Daryl’s suing Rick for public indecency. 

For now though, there are no real judges and he doesn’t really want to drag the matter out in front of Deanna because he’s quite sure the only one who’d end up being judged is him; he’s gotta stick to safer subjects. Like food. Food’s very safe. “Can get y’all a boar, seen some tracks outside,” he offers. “If done right, ‘s good for barbecue. You just gotta find a grill ‘round here somewhere and yer good to go.”

Rick nods, smiling. “You think of everything, don’t you? Oh, by the way, speaking of life's little pleasures,” he says, “have you thought about my idea?”

Daryl hopes his face doesn’t betray how _that_ was actually the only thing he’d been thinking about since morning, in many roundabout ways. He grunts wordlessly and prays to whatever deity might still be listening that he doesn’t blush. Blushing would definitely ruin everything. A man can’t really be like, strong and masculine, if he’s gonna be all blushy about such things. Can he? 

“Good. If you decide to give it a go, just come up. Knock twice so I know it’s you, alright?” Rick smiles encouragingly. The way he smiles now, with his face clean-shaven and smooth, it makes him seem so harmless. Daryl sort of misses the scruff from the road. Even the whole unruly beard. It made Rick look dangerous. Like he should look. Because he is.

It’s part of what makes him so attractive, and Daryl just wishes Rick didn’t try to bury it under this guise of civilization and morality, and all that shit. This Constable Friendly persona, it’s fake, it’s not what Daryl knows, it’s… wrong, somehow. In the same way so much of Alexandria is wrong. 

Yeah, so he really, really misses the beard.

“Would be kinda nice,” he says eventually when he figures Rick is awaiting an answer. “If it worked, I mean. Aaron’s been talkin’ about goin’ for a recruitment run these last few days, but I ain’t gonna put him at risk goin’ like this. I’d be useless out there.”

Rick scoffs, like he’s offended on Daryl’s behalf. “I can’t even imagine a situation in which you’d ever be useless. I mean, even at your weakest, you’re still the strongest of all of us. On the road, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” he admits. “Aaron’s gonna be lucky to have you along. Though, I gotta be honest, I ain’t been very keen on letting you out of my sight, especially when you still haven’t slept.”

“What, yer mother-hennin’ me now? I ain’t your kid,” Daryl protests half-heartedly. In reality, he’s feeling all warm and fuzzy inside at the confirmation that Rick’s still being protective over him. He hates it. He’s not some damsel in distress and Rick isn’t a knight in shining armor, so the whole thing’s just ridiculous. Though armor could be useful. Walkers couldn’t bite Rick through armor. Daryl’s going to have to look into the topic later.

“Nope, but you’re family,” Rick says firmly. “Ain’t I allowed to be worried about my family?”

There’s no arguing with that, so Daryl just rolls his eyes and fishes in the back pocket of his jeans for his last remaining pack of cigarettes. With a sigh, he notes he’s only got three left. He’s going to have to check if there are any in the storage. If not, maybe he can get Glenn to find some for him on the next supply run. They’re still considered basic needs if he literally can’t stop his hands shaking without them, right? 

Rick watches him, an unreadable expression on his face; he is like that, sometimes, and even Daryl can’t make a guess at his thoughts despite the fact that he knows Rick better than anyone else. It’s difficult to discern what the man’s looking for right now as he observes Daryl lighting the cigarette and inhaling the smoke, then exhaling it in light gray ribbons. Daryl thinks Rick might be looking at his mouth, but he’s not too sure. There’s nothing to look at, anyway, his lips ain’t full and pretty or anything, not like Rick’s. Rick… everything about him is just so pretty. His damn blue eyes, especially, but his lips too, and his curly hair, and his hands. Even his skinny ass is pretty. And his bowed legs. And, really, Daryl could look at Rick all the time. Actually, he almost always does. 

He’s just not sure why Rick would want to look at _him_ , but Aaron said he does, so. Maybe it’s true. Aaron wouldn’t lie. Not about this gay shit, anyway. He takes it all very seriously. It must be part of that gay agenda Merle used to gripe about all the time before.

“Ah, before I forget,” Rick says after a moment of what probably appears to him to be comfortable silence but is, in fact, Daryl being too lost in his thoughts to talk much. It happens a lot. The sleeplessness is definitely to blame for this one.

“Eric told me there’s an abandoned tobacco plantation a few miles south-west from here. It’s small, but might be worth looking at. Maybe you’d like to check it out.”

Daryl nods. “I may, when we head out with Aaron,” he replies somewhat dismissively.

Rick frowns, like Daryl completely misunderstood. He might have. He’s tired, after all. “I meant, perhaps you’d like to go on a run with me? Could be interesting.”

And Daryl’s mood suddenly brightens. 

It’s been such a long time since they went on actual supply runs, especially together, but back on the road, they were still a great team. Daryl misses it. Obviously, he doesn’t miss the starvation and thirst of that time, he doesn’t miss the hopelessness that overcame the whole group when it seemed like they would be wandering forever until the last of them dropped dead; but he does miss the easy understanding of each other’s intentions and movements he shared with Rick, the way they communicated wordlessly, with their eyes and their bodies, just glancing at each other, nodding, breathing just right. He misses the joy of bringing loot back to the family. Even just a few squirrels, a dozen cans of tomatoes, or a crate of jarred pickles at one memorable occasion. It didn’t matter what it was as long as they brought food back. Together.

Yeah, he’d like to go check out the tobacco plantation with Rick. Even if they find nothing there, it’s still going to be amazing because out there, Rick would be the man Daryl really knows, the man he understands and _needs_ , and. God, he’s missed it in these walls.

“Anyway, when do you plan to head out with Aaron?” Rick asks when he decides Daryl isn’t going to answer.

“Soon as I gots me some sleep,” Daryl mutters, rolling his shoulders. He takes another drag of the cigarette, grimacing slightly at how stale it tastes. He hopes the tobacco plantation run yields any results at all.

“So it’s actually not in my best interest to help you sleep, huh?” Rick teases. Before Daryl can say anything to that, Rick pats his shoulder fondly, _good talk_ , then goes back into the house, whistling an old classic rock tune under his breath.

So… Rick doesn’t want him to go out there. Daryl can kind of get that. It’s just part of Rick being this protective son of a bitch, he’s like that with everyone, though not necessarily always with Daryl. But then again, he doesn’t seem to mind the idea of Daryl going out _with him_ , just with Aaron. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know Aaron too well. Doesn’t know the guy is actually trustworthy. Daryl also doesn’t know that with a hundred percent certainty, but he’s got a good feeling about him. Aaron’s nice. Got a great boyfriend and an even better garage with bike parts. What’s not to like? 

Eventually, he’s sure Rick’s going to see it his way as well. 

For now, it’s not Daryl’s problem. What is his problem is that he hasn’t managed to tell Rick that he decided to take him up on the offer, after all. _Knock twice_ , Rick said. _So I know it’s you_ , like it’s important. What does he plan to do when Daryl comes to his room? 

Assuming he _was_ looking at Daryl’s mouth, which might be true and might not. But assuming it is true. Does he plan to kiss Daryl? At this, Daryl licks his lips. He’s never kissed anyone before. He imagines it must be pleasant, people do that shit all the time. He’d definitely want to kiss Rick, if he could, because he’s been curious about what it feels like forever and, well, Rick wouldn’t laugh at him if he turned out completely terrible at it. He only has practice with like, the meaty part of the palm of his hand, he used to practice kissing on it when he was thirteen and still believed he’d have a chance to kiss somebody for real sooner or later. Turns out, he might’ve been right, just didn’t realize the _later_ would take some thirty-plus years. 

Okay, now that he thinks about it, it’s pathetic. He can’t just go to Rick’s bedroom and expect the man to do everything. He needs to learn about this stuff, and _fast._ He might just know where to find help with that. 

Or not, because Carol doesn’t prove nearly as supportive as he’d hoped when he found her by the lake… pond, something. She looks at him a little like she’s worried he lost his mind. She’s not wrong, but Daryl’s not about to admit it.

“It don’t need to be nothin’ big,” he says. “Just need to know ‘em basics.”

“Pookie, for the last time, I’m not going to teach you how to kiss,” Carol insists. She’s hard as steel when she wants to be, Daryl will give her that. “Why do you need that skill all off a sudden, anyway?”

And okay, it’s not a question Daryl wants to answer, though he’s really appreciative of how Carol doesn’t even blink at the fact that a grown-ass, weathered dude hasn’t ever kissed anyone before. He knew she wouldn’t. That’s why he asked her and not Michonne. Also because he’s pretty sure Michonne would pry about his reasons for wanting to learn much more than Carol is likely to, and he would tell her, eventually, and she’d laugh at the mere idea that Rick Grimes might want to kiss the likes of Daryl Dixon. 

No, she probably wouldn’t, but. Daryl can’t just ask her. 

“You really need to rest,” Carol tells him softly and pats him on the cheek. 

Daryl chuckles humorlessly. “Been tryin’,” he grumbles. 

Carol bites her lower lip like she’s not sure whether to say something, but the she does anyway: “You know, I noticed after a while being married, Ed would always fall asleep right after-”

“Orgasm, yeah, fuck, I know, dudes sleep after gettin’ their rocks off. Everyone’s been tellin’ me that shit,” Daryl interrupts impatiently, then rubs at his bottom lip with his right hand’s pointer finger which has a raised, slightly sharp cuticle. It doesn’t really hurt, doing this, at least not until he irritates the skin so much it bleeds. It just scratches, sort of, and he uses the motion to calm down. He doesn’t like the term _nervous tic_ but it fits, and anyway, it’s better than when that one broad Merle brought home once claimed Daryl had an oral fixation or whatever the hell she called it. He hasn’t got that. He doesn’t put just anything in or next to his mouth. 

Though he likes licking things. His fingers. Stuff that tastes good. His lips. Bottlenecks. That one candle that smelled like honey but tasted nothing like it. Cutlery, if he uses any.

He’d probably lick Rick, too, if he was allowed. Any part of him. For some reason, just the thought of licking Rick’s fingers instead of his own makes his mouth water.

“Don’t you raise your voice at me, young man,” Carol admonishes him sternly like a teacher, successfully dismantling his building fantasy involving Rick’s pretty hands and a curious tongue. She lacks the conviction of a teacher, though, because she looks worried. She’s about as protective as Rick, sometimes, but she expresses it in a slightly different way. She’s the type of person to slip chocolate chip cookies to Daryl throughout the day because he’s on the thinner side and needs to plump up. _Like a mom_ , Daryl thinks, and it’s sort of a bad comparison because his mother was nothing like Carol in any way, but. A good mom, that’s what Carol is. To everyone she cares about. And that includes Daryl, for one reason or another. He still can’t understand how come people care about him now. It didn’t use to happen before, even back when he still tried.

“Listen, you’ve got your reasons for this ridiculous request, but I can’t help you,” Carol says when Daryl doesn’t reply anything for a while. He doesn’t reply because he’s lost in thought again. It’s happening with a frankly alarming frequency, more so the longer he isn’t sleeping. He finds himself following threads of thoughts leading nowhere, digressing and overthinking, and he never realizes when minutes have passed and conversations have ended without his input. Everyone must think he’s going off his rocker or something. 

“Pookie?” Carol asks worriedly.

Daryl shakes his head. “Thanks anyway,” he mutters and tries to leave, but of course Carol won’t let him just flee. She grabs his wrist and holds it in a tight grip until Daryl stops squirming.

“You know, you aren’t that difficult to read,” she says softly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can see how you’re working yourself into a right sorry state. Pookie, whoever it is you want to kiss, I’m sure she’s going to love it.”

“He,” Daryl corrects her grudgingly.

Carol blinks, then nods and accepts it without question. “He,” she agrees. “He’s going to love it, because you’re a wonderful man and- wait a minute, we’re not talking about Aaron, are we? Because you really shouldn’t set your sights on a man who’s already taken-”

“Jesus Christ, woman, y’know it ain’t about fuckin’ Aaron,” Daryl snaps and then groans when he catches up with the tone of voice she used and realizes, yeah, of course she knows. She knew the moment he corrected the pronoun. Maybe before that. After all, Daryl really is easy to read. Carol just likes fucking with him. 

“He’s not going to be disappointed with you or anything, you know that, right?” She says finally, patting him on the arm. “No matter what you do, no matter how much experience you have or don’t have. That man loves you, there’s no doubt about it. Nobody with eyes could deny it. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I can promise you, you’re not risking anything. So don’t worry. He’s going to teach you all about kisses and he’s going to enjoy every second of it. And so will you.”

Daryl sighs. “Ya got it all figured out, huh?” He mutters unhappily.

Carol laughs. “Of course,” she admits. “Come on, you know I’m right. Something must have happened between the two of you already to spur you into action. Spill the beans.”

Rolling his eyes, Daryl leans back against a street lamp. He’s got an urge to smoke, but he forces himself to ignore it. There’s a lot of stress still ahead of him later today, he’s going to need those last cigarettes he’s got left. 

“Rick invited me to his bedroom,” he confesses without adding unnecessary details like the circumstances of that particular invitation.

“That’s wonderful,” Carol says with a bright and cheerful smile. Her tone sound like she’s trying to convey both _well done_ and _go get ‘em, boy_ at the same time. 

“Gonna go t’night,” Daryl adds, emboldened somewhat by the encouragement. He feels himself blush fiercely when the smile on Carol’s face turns somewhat crooked. Wicked. Like she _knows things_. And okay, so maybe she does. Still. She shouldn’t look at him all suggestive-like. It’s embarrassing. 

“I’ll make sure Judith sleeps in Carl or Michonne’s bedroom,” the woman says and finally let’s go of Daryl’s wrist. “You better take a good long shower. Clean yourself thoroughly. And relax. It’s Rick. You know that you can trust him.”

Daryl is a little bit too proud to ask for clarification about what exactly she means by _cleaning himself thoroughly_ . He’s never wondered about the logistics of sex between two men, though he knows what goes where thanks to the awful quality porn he saw trying to figure himself out as a teenager. So she means _there_ probably. Thing is, Daryl isn’t sure he’s ready for this whole _Rick’s bedroom_ business to go that far. He’s barely managed to come to terms with the idea that Rick might want to watch him masturbating. Any mutual touching, not to mention full-on penetrative sex, hasn’t entered into his consideration just yet.

_But what if Rick wants to_ , his treacherous mind asks. Faced with the question, Daryl doesn’t really know how to answer. On one hand, he’s probably not ready for such a big step. On the other, it’s Rick. He’d let Rick cut him up into tiny two-square-inch pieces, then put the pieces on cornbread and feed them to walkers as little bite-sized sandwiches if the man really wanted to. Which is a disturbing idea. Also rather disgusting. 

Sex though, of any kind, doesn’t sound disgusting. Not when it’s with Rick, at least. In fact, _sex with Rick Grimes_ sounds positively intriguing. The whole unknown aspect of it is somewhat intimidating, but Carol says he’s going to be fine and Daryl has no reason not to believe her. She’s right. Rick will treat him right. Rick will teach him all he needs to know. Daryl will finally know what he’s apparently been missing for years. He can’t wait for tonight. 

And for once, sleep isn’t what he’s looking forward to at all.


	3. The Southern Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's day gets worse before it gets much better.

Dinner is some sort of fish stew with a mix of canned and fresh vegetables. It’s not bad, but Daryl only manages to eat about half of his before he discreetly trades the rest for Carl’s empty plate. It’s a sure-fire way of getting rid of food, giving it to their resident growing teenager. Carl’s capable of out-eating every adult man in Alexandria, Abraham Ford included, all in one go. 

Rick notices. He gives Daryl a look full of disapproval, but doesn’t say anything. Daryl’s hands shake so badly he almost drops the plate as he carries it to the sink. It’s his turn to wash, but he can’t do it right now. Carol offers to do it for him, and he nods gratefully. He needs to escape. God, now. He needs to.

He heads to the porch and smokes his leftover cigarettes one after the other, in record time. They don’t really help. His hands continue to shake and his body shivers in the cool night air, and he feels like he’s going to swoon. Not all of it can be attributed to exhaustion, some he knows is the result of nervousness - _he’s going to have sex with Rick Grimes tonight_ \- and then a part of it comes from having actually disappointed Rick. Daryl never knew he was capable of exaggerating small shit like this, to the point he’s close to a fucking heart attack just because Rick looked at him funny, but here he is. He also feels like he’s going to throw up. Apparently, nerves don’t mix well with too much stale nicotine and fish stew. 

Fuck this shit. He’s so exhausted he might cry.

He stays at the porch until much, much later, hidden away in the corner, arms wrapped around his body to maintain some semblance of warmth. He watches the inhabitants of the other house leave; they might not all live in the same house anymore, but they still eat dinners together, like a real family, and then they all go their merry ways. Nobody acknowledges Daryl on the porch, like they all can sense his need to be alone, and he’s grateful for it. He’d be even more grateful if he could think straight for five minutes.

Why is everything so overwhelming? Damn it, he’s feeling worse than on the road when they were all sort of hanging on and refusing to die on principle. At least then he had an excuse to have fucking panic attacks. His family was suffering and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, and he felt worthless, and of course he was having panic attacks. Now? It’s just pathetic. 

“Get a fuckin’ grip, Dixon,” he mutters to himself, but it doesn’t help any. For fuck’s sake. It’s not like he’s trying to talk himself into fighting thirty walkers at once in hand to hand combat. He just needs to get over this pointless stupor and walk upstairs, take a long shower, then knock twice on Rick’s door; and there, all his problems will magically vanish or something. 

But Rick gave him that look of disapproval, so what if he doesn’t want Daryl anymore?

It’s at least another hour before the door opens and Rick comes outside to the porch. He doesn’t say anything when he sees Daryl, he just sits down on the wood next to him. 

“Yer gonna get cold,” Daryl mutters after a moment. 

Rick shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “Daryl, hey. Look at me,” he demands, and Daryl does because he isn’t physically capable of disobeying anything Rick asks of him.

“What’s wrong?” The man asks softly, and his eyes look dark and worried in the gloom of the night. 

“Think ‘m just tired,” Daryl whispers. He wants to look away but he’s unable to. He’s painfully aware that the lie is clearly visible in the way he fidgets, in the way he can’t stop shivering. 

“Okay,” Rick agrees softly. It’s not an _okay_ that means _I believe what you’re saying_ , but an _okay_ that means _I know you’re bullshitting me, but I see you’re on the edge and that’s why I’m not going to press the issue._ In a way, this is even worse. Daryl feels like he keeps disappointing Rick over and over. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Rick says, and he stands and extends a hand for Daryl to grab. Daryl accepts the help to stand and then sways, and it’s not intentional, but somehow he finds himself in Rick’s arms in a loose, supportive embrace. 

“Steady there,” the man whispers. The warm puff of breath against Daryl’s skin as he speaks feels like a promise of things to come. 

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters and tries to step away, but Rick holds him firmly and even pulls him closer. He’s so fucking warm. Daryl sort of wants to curl up against him and never move away. He can sense some of Rick’s inner warmth seeping into his own skin, and it’s that along with the man’s soft voice that helps him finally calm down.

Rick says, “Doing good, darlin’,” and then, “You’re fine, you’re fine,”and even, “You’ve got this, baby, you’re amazing,” and it means nothing, the pet names and the caring tone, he’s just talking shit or making random soothing noises, but Daryl can’t _not_ do good because Rick’s saying he does and he needs to do as Rick says. Normally, he’d be terrified of how pathetic he’s becoming, but this? The insomnia, the complete exhaustion? That’s not normal, and yeah, he’s going to use it as his excuse because he’s too tired to explain his behavior otherwise.

“I’m going to hug you now,” Rick warns softly, and Daryl doesn’t know why he thinks the warning is even needed. He wants this. All of this. To be held, to be touched. This warmth, he craves it, and when Rick wraps his arms around Daryl’s waist, Daryl leans into him and rests his forehead on Rick’s shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling the man’s scent. Rick’s shirt smells of the stew from dinner and of something fresh like… deodorant? Soap? Something, and then underneath that, it also smells vaguely of sweat, and Daryl likes that it does. Likes the way Rick smells real.

“Better now?” Rick asks, and Daryl just sort of presses his head a bit harder into Rick’s shoulder. He’s suddenly worried that as soon as the man realizes Daryl’s feeling better, he’s going to let go and never hug him again. He can’t bear it. 

“You’re shaking,” Rick notes and his embrace tightens. “Cold?”

“Yea,” Daryl murmurs. “Always colder when ‘m tired.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Rick agrees. “When Lori was pregnant with Carl, we didn’t really have a lot of money. Sometimes, after double shifts, I used to take additional hours in a security company. Two or three days on an hour of sleep were my constant at the time. By the second night, I was wearing a sweater even though it was August,” he sighs. “How long have you been like this, Daryl? How long have you needed help?...”

Instead of denying it, saying he’s not weak, protesting in any way, Daryl just sags against Rick, exhales loudly - he refuses to call it a _sob_ \- and doesn’t say anything. He’s fucking it all up. He was supposed to join Rick in the bedroom and do sexy stuff, not cover the man’s shoulder with snot. Why does he have to be like this? 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Rick whispers in the same way he would speak to Judith when she’s fussy. “It’s okay to need help. I’m here for you, okay? I’m here.”

And Daryl can’t help it: he breaks down, and there are tears, and he might be crying, sobbing like a babe, face hidden in Rick’s chest, hands tightening into fists. God, it’s so embarrassing, but he’s unable to stop. It’s like a dam broke inside of him, all the crazy emotions he’s been feeling lately spilling over until they just won’t be contained anymore. Everything is too much. He can’t go on like this. He’s so, so tired. 

Rick holds him through it, arms steady, voice low and comforting as he hums something that sounds a bit like a lullaby. It’s strange, but it’s working; after minutes which seem like hours to Daryl, he begins to calm down, the emotional wave no longer so overwhelming he can’t control himself. Now he’s just exhausted, but he thinks he can deal with it. He has for so long. It’s not like he’s got any other option left, does he? There’s no way Rick will still want him now. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Rick whispers when Daryl squirms in his embrace, less uncomfortable than he is sure he’s overstayed his welcome in the man’s arms. 

“Sorry for that,” Daryl mutters and wipes his face with the rag he’s been carrying around. 

Rick shakes his head. “Got nothing to be sorry for. C’mon. Ain’t no way I’m letting you sleep on that awful couch tonight,” he says and pulls Daryl inside the house by the hand. He’s holding Daryl’s hand. His fingers are warm and calloused from holding a gun, but gentle, like they’re used to handling fragile things. Daryl isn’t fragile, but Rick’s holding his hand like he is, and it’s so dumb, but there’s hope blooming in Daryl’s chest that maybe he hasn’t screwed up everything after all. Maybe Rick really is okay with him being like this. This hopeless. Vulnerable. Maybe this time, it’s okay.

Rick’s bedroom is the largest and there’s a crib in the corner, but it’s empty. Daryl remembers what Carol promised - to have Judith sleep with Carl or Michonne tonight - and he chuckles bitterly because he can’t imagine it making much of a difference anymore. Even if Rick doesn’t mind him weeping like a babe, Daryl’s pretty sure he’s managed to ruin the mood for anything that could’ve happened between them tonight. 

“Take off your shirt,” Rick demands softly and Daryl does as asked. He looks around, not sure what to do with the shirt, and Rick takes it from him, folds it and places it on the one chair in the room. He passes Daryl a big hoodie and a pair of sweatpants in return. 

“Got those from Glenn,” he explains, “they hit a clothing depot on the last run. I’ll have to check if they’ve managed to score other warm things you could wear.”

“‘s fine, ain’t no need,” Daryl protests, but then bites his lower lip. _Rick likes to be protective_ , he reminds himself. He needs to let him. 

“Nonsense,” Rick says, then points to the bed. “Get comfortable. I’ll go get me a mattress from the empty bedroom-”

“Why?” Daryl asks, bewildered.

Rick blinks. “Well, you’ll be sleeping in my bed, so. I mean, I could probably get some rest on your couch if you’d rather be alone…”

“‘s a fuckin’ big bed,” Daryl mutters, looking away. He should be ashamed, because it’s almost like he’s outright asking Rick to get into bed with him when the man’s very clearly indicating he doesn’t want that. But he’s so tired and Rick’s embrace back on the porch was so nice. It felt like he could fall asleep just because of Rick’s presence all around him. 

Rick sighs. “Daryl,” he says, and his voice sounds deeper than usual, rougher around the edges. When Daryl looks up at him, he notes that Rick’s eyes are closed, his face frozen in a frown like he’s trying to focus on something very intently.

“If I get in that bed with you, you may not like the outcome,” the man warns, still in that deep voice. Daryl bites down on his lower lip, feeling heat spreading all over his face and neck and chest in a deep flush at the implication of Rick’s words. Because he did imply, didn’t he? It was an innuendo. He all but said outright that, well. _That_. 

“May like it,” Daryl whispers and then immediately tries to back off, pretend he didn’t say a thing, by moving towards the bed. He feels awkward lifting the covers and sitting down on the soft mattress, sliding his legs between the white sheets. Immediately, his nose is filled with the scent of lavender and body wash and Rick. God, he’s in _Rick’s bed_ . Just the mere thought of it causes a lazy stirring of _something_ in his lower parts. 

When he chances another glance at Rick, he can see the sight of him in the bed definitely affects the man as well. Rick doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s staring at him, an expression of pure unadulterated _want_ on his beautiful face, and when their eyes meet, Rick licks his lips. Daryl mirrors the motion, can’t help it really, and Rick’s gaze slides down to Daryl’s mouth, and this time, there’s no doubt about it. He’s looking. He is looking, and Daryl feels both nervous and strangely calm at the same time. 

He lifts the covers on the other side of the bed and pats the mattress with his hand, the gesture completely innocent and yet not. Because back in the prison days, if he did this during a run (and he had, and they had slept in the same bed more than once), it would’ve been in joking exasperation. A sort of _we both need sleep, we’re both dudes, it’s not weird_ sentiment. But it’s not like that anymore. 

Daryl isn’t normal anymore, and so the meaning of the gesture isn’t innocent, and the thing is, both he and Rick know that somehow. Daryl exhales shakily, thinks, _please, please don’t let me be wrong ‘bout this,_ and then Rick is moving, closing the distance between himself and the bed in a few long strides. Before he lowers himself to the spot Daryl’s hand is still touching, he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off, throws it carelessly over his shoulder. Then he slides into the bed, leans back against the pillows, looks up at Daryl who’s still sitting above him, and his breathing is labored, and his eyes are dark in the sparsely lit room. 

Daryl makes the first move, surprising himself; he moves into Rick’s personal space, slowly, hesitantly, but he does. He lowers himself into the man’s already waiting arms, and Rick wraps him in an embrace not unlike the one on the porch, just vertical. Resting his head carefully against Rick’s chest, trying to put as little pressure as possible into the man’s arm trapped under him, Daryl concentrates on calming his breathing, otherwise he might start wheezing out of anxiety. He’s trembling again, or maybe still. His hands are shaking. Rick notices and lifts his free hand, takes one of Daryl’s in a gentle grasp, settles it on his abdomen and holds it there. Daryl can hear his heartbeat, too fast, too frantic; it matches his own, and he wonders if Rick can feel the same apprehension he does. 

“Are you sleepy?” Rick asks after a moment when his fingers begin to gently massage the back of Daryl’s hand. His voice is a low rumble that makes the hairs all over Daryl’s body stand on end, and _no_ , for the first time in he can’t remember how long, he’s not sleepy at all. 

He shakes his head a fraction, then mumbles, in case Rick didn’t get the nonverbal response, “Nah… Tired, but ain’t sleepy.”

“Hmm,” Rick hums thoughtfully. “Can I… try something?”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes out immediately.  
Rick lets go of his hand and shifts, pushing Daryl gently away and onto the mattress. Before Daryl can protest, the man repositions himself so as to straddle him, and for a second Daryl’s about to panic because he’s trapped, but then - _it’s Rick_ , he tells himself, and he looks up at Rick’s face above him, at the prettiest blue eyes he’s ever seen, darkened now but still so fucking beautiful. He feels a breath leaving him in an audible gasp and that’s when Rick leans in, slow like he’s giving Daryl a chance to escape; but Daryl doesn’t escape and Rick’s lips touch his own in a brief caress, then another, and then Rick groans and puts more pressure into it, and Daryl tries to sort of do the same back at him, and they’re kissing. Daryl threads his fingers into the curly hair at the nape of Rick’s neck, holding him close, and he makes a soft noise he’d be embarrassed about normally when Rick bites down on his lower lip, not hard, but enough to be felt. When his lips fall open, Rick uses that to press his tongue between them, and Daryl lets him, and the remnant taste of mint fills his mouth as Rick explores it, coaxing Daryl’s tongue to move against his. 

God, it should be disgusting, the way they’re basically exchanging spit, but it’s not; it’s hot and confusing and incredible and safe, and Daryl doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, but he finds he doesn’t even care at the moment, because Rick isn’t drawing back. He’s kissing Daryl like he’s never wanted anything else, like he’s going to die if his lips stop touching Daryl’s for even a moment, and Daryl kisses back the same way, desperate, hungry, insatiable. 

But they have to breathe eventually, and Rick breaks their connection for a moment as they both pant heavily like they’ve run a marathon, still so close they’re essentially sharing the same air. Daryl can’t help the immediate need to lick his lips so he does, and he shudders in delight when Rick’s tongue chases his own across his lower lip. 

“What you do to me… You got no idea, do you,” Rick whispers, and he starts planting tiny kisses all over Daryl’s jaw and neck. His hands, pretty inactive until now, begin to glide up and down Daryl’s clothed body, spreading warmth wherever they touch. They’re not shy about their destination; one of them finally rests on Daryl’s hip while the other moves even lower to cup between his slightly spread legs. Rick swallows the moan the touch draws out of Daryl’s throat, claims it in another kiss, and it’s all that Daryl can do to just hold on and not explode. 

Rick doesn’t do anything further, though, he pauses and waits until Daryl’s capable of thinking straight for a second; he asks, “Is this okay?” - and he demonstrates what he means by squeezing Daryl’s rock hard cock through the sweatpants. 

“F-fuck, yeah,” Daryl says, high-pitched and breathless, and he’s sure the way his fingers tighten in Rick’s hair must be painful but he doesn’t know how to stop, and his hips buck almost of their own volition into the touch, and Rick kisses him again, grinds down against his thigh - God, he’s hard, too, for Daryl, he’s hard because of things he’s doing with Daryl - and his hand moves up and down, outlining Daryl’s cock through the thick fabrics, and it’s not enough, Daryl wants, he _needs_ -

“Touch me,” he begs against Rick’s lips, and Rick pushes his tongue in Daryl’s mouth again, just in time to muffle the keening sound Daryl makes as Rick’s hand slips underneath the waistband of the sweatpants, under the boxers, and then wraps his warm calloused fingers around the rigid length of Daryl’s cock. It’s too much, and it’s not nearly enough, and Daryl wants it to last but can’t do anything about it, he tries to do something, grabs Rick’s arm and pulls on it, but it’s too late, he can’t, he jerks his hips into the heat of Rick’s touch and then that’s it, his whole body spasms and he arches off the bed, eyes open wide as he repeats Rick’s name like a fervent prayer.

He’s vaguely aware of Rick moving his hips, pressing himself against his thigh, Rick’s hand still between his legs, wrapped loosely around his softening cock; he sloppily returns the kiss Rick demands from his lips. He’s completely, utterly spent, unable to move, unable to do anything for Rick but just lie there and let Rick seek his own completion against his body. It doesn’t take very long, a few frantic thrusts into Daryl’s thigh push Rick over the edge, and Daryl watches him from under heavy lids, hoping to never forget the beautiful picture Rick makes as he comes with his eyes shut and his lips parted, a groan of deep satisfaction escaping them before he collapses heavily on top of Daryl’s body. He finally removes his hand from Daryl’s pants, wipes it on a small pillow which he then throws vaguely in the direction of the laundry pile. He settles back down on top of Daryl and stays like that w while.

“‘m sorry,” Daryl whispers, listening to the man’s breathing slowly evening out. He wonders what is expected of him now. Should he get out of the bed, out of here, should he head downstairs to his couch? He hopes he didn’t wake anyone with his dumb moaning; God, they’re going to all think he’s some kind of a pervert now.

And Rick’s probably going to be ashamed of what he’s done with him. Especially that it wasn’t very good. Daryl knows he’s got everything to be embarrassed about. Rick definitely didn’t expect him to shoot like a teenager just from a hand on his dick. He probably wanted more, and now Daryl’s ruined it, and-

“Nothing to sorry for, Daryl. Believe me. You’re damn perfect, sweetheart, y’know that?...” Rick asks after a moment, and he rolls onto his back before pulling Daryl back into his arms, helping him settle into an embrace just like before. He kisses the top of Daryl’s head and Daryl looks up at him in a sort of tired disbelief. 

“‘twas terrible though, for you, musta been,” he mutters, and he feels his eyes welling up with tears which he hates because _men don’t cry for no reason_ , but Rick just shakes his head and kisses him on the forehead. 

“I promise you, it wasn’t,” he says softly. “Now… will you try to sleep? I’ll be watching you, you’ll be safe here, darlin’.”

Daryl hums in reply, something that he wants to convey that he's not a baby and doesn't need to be coddled, but he's too exhausted to form actual words. He hides a yawn by burying his face in Rick’s chest, and when he concentrates, he can feel the man’s steady heartbeat. It's distracting. He listens to it a moment, his eyes slipping closed as his own body relaxes, and he wants to ask Rick-

He falls asleep before he can finish the thought, and for the first time in _forever_ , he sleeps through the whole night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you guys point out Daryl's been written out of character, please mind that he hasn't slept in who knows how long. Insomnia and general lack of sleep are very conductive to depressive episodes, causing the feeling of hopelessness and despair a lot. They don't really work well with people who already have low self esteem. So. Yeah, Daryl's definitely more prone to hysterical and irrational reactions here than he is in canon, but that makes sense plot-wise... at least I hope so.


	4. The Aftermath

The soft golden-orange glow of the early rising sun falls into the room through the opening in the curtains so perfectly that it illuminates the calmly sleeping face of one Rick Grimes. Daryl has woken up about an hour ago, feeling better than he can remember ever feeling in his life. He didn’t want to get up yet, though, so he’s stayed in bed, motionless, watching the changing hues cast by the sunrise playfully staining Rick’s skin. 

His mind is clear for the first time in a really long time, clear and relaxed. It’s amazing what a full night’s sleep can do after such a prolonged period of no sleep at all. It makes him worry, however: will he be able to fall asleep without Rick? Because while what happened between them last night was nice, more than nice actually, he’s pretty sure Rick’s not going to be interested in doing it again. Why would he? He got nothing out of it, nothing he wouldn’t get by jerking off on his own, and he had to suffer Daryl’s lack of experience… Fuck, he must’ve hated how Daryl didn’t even really do anything. Like, Daryl thinks he should’ve at least returned the favor. It can’t be difficult to give someone a handjob. Isn’t it practically the same as masturbation, just with another dude’s cock? He should’ve done it. He shouldn’t have just lay there like a bitch and waited for Rick to do all the work.

At least he’s not so weak anymore. He’ll be able to go out on a recruitment run with Aaron and hopefully Rick will forget about the horrible experience while he’s gone. 

Rick begins to stir next to him and Daryl considers making his escape, but decides against it after all. Yes, he’s probably going to be told how the whole thing was a mistake, but he can deal with it. Rick isn’t likely to be cruel about it. He’s Rick. He won’t deliberately hurt Daryl.   
“Mmm… g’mornin’,” Rick murmurs sleepily and leans in to kiss him on the lips. 

Stunned, Daryl lets him, but his astonishment must show clearly on his face because when Rick draws away, he frowns. 

“Something wrong?” He asks.

Daryl shakes his head, _no_. “Didn’t ‘spect you’d be all lovey-dovey, ‘s all,” he mutters. 

“Why?” Rick inquires. God, his eyes are so _fucking_ blue. It’s a wonder Daryl hasn’t lost himself in them before. He might, now, unless he looks away. But he doesn’t want to.

“Daryl, do you regret what we did?” 

Somewhat puzzled, Daryl shakes his head again. “Ain’t gonna regret it,” he promises softly. “Thought you woulda. Wasn’t real good, so-”

“No, stop,” Rick interrupts him. He sits up, looks intently down at Daryl from his elevated position. He’s wearing a t-shirt. Weird, Daryl remembers he wasn’t wearing a top last night. He must’ve gotten up and dressed. Maybe he was cold during the night. 

“Daryl, listen. Besides the fact that I obviously enjoyed it, can’t even begin to guess how you could’ve missed it... there’s literally no way I could’ve regretted anything as long as it’s with you,” the man says earnestly. “I’ve wanted you… anything with you, anything you’d give me, probably since the farm. Maybe since Atlanta, I don’t know, that time’s sorta fuzzy. Thing is, for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to have something more with you. I just didn’t think you’d be interested. You never seemed to be.”

“Dunno if I woulda been,” Daryl admits and lifts a hand to bite down on a fingertip. He watches the man’s blue eyes, the way they look away, the way sadness overtakes Rick’s unfairly handsome face. He sighs, because that’s the last thing he wants, and he adds to clarify, “Am now, though. If yer still… y’know. If you still wanna.”

“I want to kiss you,” Rick says simply, hopeful now, eyes drawn back to Daryl’s. 

Daryl rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Ain’t gotta ask,” he informs. The way it comes out, he thinks it sounds like a challenge, but it’s because he still doesn’t believe Rick _really_ wants him. What’s there to want? He’s just a damn ugly redneck son of a bitch, he’s not a pretty guy, Rick can’t even pretend he’s a chick with him. 

But he’s not a liar. He said he wants Daryl. 

“Gotta brush your teeth first, loverboy,” Rick tells him firmly, and laughs at Daryl’s undoubtedly funny face. “C’mon. You slept for some thirty hours, you know that? You don’t want your teeth to fall out, do you?”

Thirty hours. That explains a lot- wait. “Why didn'cha wake me?” Daryl asks incredulously. He’d never slept so long before. He’s wasted the entire day. He could’ve been productive, done something useful for the family, but no, he spent all that time in bed, dead to the world. 

“You needed to rest,” Rick replies calmly, like nothing happened. “Besides, I’m not sure anyone could’ve woken you. You slept through Judith literally bouncing on top of you. Just mumbled something I didn’t understand, you rolled over and sort of curled up into the pillow. It was adorable. You know how adorable you are?...”

Daryl scowls. “Ain’t,” he protests unhappily. Then, “Yer such a dork.”

Rick laughs. “Yup, guilty,” he agrees. “Come on. Let’s hit the bathroom before Michonne wakes up. She takes her baths for _hours_.”

Daryl rolls his eyes again, but he does as Rick says. They go to the bathroom together and he has no problem brushing his teeth while Rick’s taking a piss; it’s not like they’d done any different back in the prison. They change places and that’s fine too, Rick doesn’t look at him or anything. Daryl does, though. He looks back at Rick just as the man picks up the shaving cream. 

“Don’t,” he demands before he can stop himself. When Rick gives him a questioning glance, he blushes and frowns. “... liked ya better with yer beard,” he explains gruffly.

Rick chuckles and puts the cream back on the sink. “In that case, no shaving,” he announces. “Wouldn’t want you to drop me for somebody else… someone with a beard, now would I?”

“Not gonna happen,” Daryl assures him, shaking his head at the man’s silly antics. He pulls up his sweatpants, flushes the toilet and returns to the sink to wash his hands. Rick refuses to move, so Daryl pushes him to the side with his hip, smirking when Rick yelps in indignation. The man looks at him like he’s kicked his puppy, though, and Daryl can’t keep being satisfied when those blue eyes stare at him like _that_.

“Quit it, man,” he groans, “doncha lookit me like this. ‘s unfair.”

Rick laughs. “Good. You deserved it,” he informs him cheerfully. “Now strip.”

Daryl feels his jaw drop and his cheeks flush. Rick’s tone was playful, but did he mean it playfully? Or does he really want Daryl to strip here in front of him?

“I can turn around if you want,” the man promises. “But it’s gonna prove difficult to shower together if I can’t look at you.”

“We gonna shower together?” Daryl asks, surprised. 

“Well, yes,” Rick replies, “that was the plan. Unless you don’t want to.”

Daryl really, really wants to. With his body well-rested, he notes with a slight sense of embarrassment that there’s a very noticeable tent in the crotch area of his sweatpants. He’s pretty sure Rick saw it, too. And they’ve barely even touched each other today. Does Rick get hard so fast as well? Probably not. 

“Daryl? Do you want to shower with me?” Rick asks, concern lacing his voice, and he lifts a hand to brush his fingers over Daryl’s cheekbone. 

“Mmmm,” Daryl replies in a soft hum. He turns his head and places a hesitant kiss on the palm of Rick’s hand. It earns him a sweet, relieved smile which he likes to see. It makes the man look so much younger. More peaceful. Very, very pretty.

“Do you need help taking off your clothes?” Rick asks mischievously now. He’s still smiling, if a little crookedly now. He brushes his thumb against Daryl’s lips and Daryl opens them to touch it with the tip of his tongue. He watches Rick’s eyes darken, his pupils dilate in what can’t be anything but arousal. He’s proud of what he’s done, now: he is the cause for this, he made Rick feel this, he, himself. It’s still a bit difficult to reconcile the image he has of himself with something desirable, but… this is the proof, isn’t it? Proof that Rick really wants him.

“Why, ya offerin’ to help?” He asks, allowing himself to enjoy this. He smirks and nips on Rick’s thumb, then begins to take off the hoodie without moving away from Rick’s rich. 

Rick’s hands stay his, gently slap them away and hooks them at the bottom of the hoodie. “I’ll do it,” he murmurs and very slowly slides the fabric up Daryl’s body, biting his lip as he lets his fingers touch the expanses of Daryl’s abdomen and chest. He seems fascinated with the way Daryl’s pecs twitch at the barely-there caress, so he repeats it and accidentally brushes a nipple with his thumb.

Daryl gasps, a jolt of pleasure running through him and he shivers. Sometimes, when he touched himself, he tried pinching his nipples and it felt _fucking amazing_ , though he didn’t really want to do it because it seems like something girls would like. He hasn’t seen much tit-groping in the few gay porn flicks he had the chance to see back when he was still interested in watching porn. He thought dudes just weren’t supposed to be into that.

But Rick, he seems to be very Into That; he quickly removes Daryl’s hoodie all the way, pulls it over his head and stretched arms, then throws it to the floor. He does it without looking away from the dusky nipple, like he’s completely amazed by how it hardened thanks to his accidental touch. He touches it again, nothing accidental in it, he presses the pads of his fingers against it and smiles encouragingly when Daryl sighs contentedly at the tingling pleasure it gives him. Rick’s fingertips leave fluttering little caresses on the nipple, then on the other, before the man steps closer into Daryl’s personal space, ducks his head to his chest and then _licks_ the hard nub in a broad stripe.

“God,” Daryl hisses and Rick laughs softly.

“Love when you call me that,” he jokes. Daryl wants to retaliate, say something equally, well, dumb and cocky, but then Rick sucks the nipple into his mouth and all words leave Daryl. He can only make a soft, breathless sound of appreciation, more moan than anything else. His hands fly up to tangle into Rick’s hair. For a moment, he can do nothing but hold on and enjoy the sensation, and fuck if he’s ever dismissing the sensitivity of his chest as something _girly_ again, it’s too good, it’s too _fucking_ good.

But Daryl’s no wilting flower, no matter how he may’ve come across like it during their first time together, what with his insomnia-induced weakness. He has hands, too, and a very curious set of lips, and he has ideas on what to do with them, too - because this time, he’s not going to just lay back and enjoy himself. This time he’s going to make sure everything is amazing for Rick. 

_Will get to taste him, too._

He bites on his lower lip, a bit thrown off-guard by that stray thought. His mind seems to be heading in a very bold direction. It’s all good, though. Daryl inhales loudly, makes up his mind and pushes Rick very gently away, not forceful enough to make him think his touch is unwelcome. Just so he stops because Daryl needs to concentrate. 

With movement that is only a bit unsure, Daryl moves the fabric at the bottom of Rick’s t-shirt out of the way and presses his hands to the man’s abdomen. It earns him a low exhale and he smiles. From there, he slides his hands up the man’s muscular stomach to his chest where he gives his nipples the same treatment his own was subjected to. It doesn’t get him a reaction similar to how he all but moaned in pleasure, so he doesn’t dwell on it and instead helps Rick out of the t-shirt altogether and presses himself bodily into the man’s immediate embrace. Rick looks at him both curious and somewhat smug, so Daryl kisses him which serves as a good diversion tactic. 

He’s not sure how he’s gotten to be so bold, but he thinks Rick admitting to having wanted him for, well, _years_ , is what did it. If Rick’s wanted this, wanted _him_ , then he’s likely to welcome and enjoy at least some of the stuff Daryl wants to try on him. Like kissing. God, but Daryl’s absolutely in love with kissing. He can’t believe he missed out on this through all his youth. Though, to be honest, it probably wouldn’t have been half as good with anyone who wasn’t Rick, so maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t do it before.

He kisses Rick thoroughly, deeply, presses his tongue against Rick’s, tastes the toothpaste they both used. He explores; he doesn’t know what’s good and what’s not, so he tries pushing inside, running the tip of his tongue on the roof of Rick’s mouth, then decides touching Rick’s tongue felt better and does just that. Rick groans softly and Daryl can feel that the man is just as aroused as he is, can feel the hard length of Rick’s cock pressed against his leg. He wants to touch it, this time. He wants to taste it, too, he decides, and he roughly breaks the kiss. 

Rick leans in like he wants to capture his lips again, but Daryl doesn’t let him. He drops to his knees instead, and it doesn’t bother him that the tile floor is hard and he’s going to have very telling bruises. He licks his lips, hoping they’re not chapped; fuck, what if they are, what if kissing him felt terrible… no, they don’t seem to be, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t have much in the lip department anyway, but screw it, he can pull it off. He can, right?

“Daryl,” Rick says softly, brokenly, looking down at him like he’s found God all of a sudden, even though Daryl hasn’t even pulled down his pants yet. He trails a hand over Daryl’s cheek, cups his jaw and strokes with his thumb, and Daryl closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation. But he’s not down here to be petted. He’s got business, stuff to do. He bites down on his lower lip as he looks up at Rick, trying to convey that he needs to focus now. Rick’s hand retreats, but not before Daryl lightly kisses his fingertips.

Then Daryl gets to work. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Rick’s sweats and pulls them down, and he’s not really surprised when he discovers the man doesn’t have any underwear on. It’s a bit of a shock to come face to face with an erect dick so suddenly, but nothing he can’t get over. Especially that he likes Rick’s dick. It’s pretty, if a dick can be pretty; he supposes it’s pretty because it’s Rick’s, and all of Rick is pretty. It’s framed with a dark patch of curly hair and it’s thick. Probably a bit slimmer than Daryl’s, but longer, and it curves a bit to the side. Got a thick, pulsating vein all along the length. It’s a nice color too, pink-ish, darker at the tip where it seems to leak a pearlescent liquid. 

Daryl stares at a thick bead of liquid running down Rick’s cock for a second before he leans in, inhales - _God, Rick smells so fuckin’ fine_ \- and presses his lips to the side of the length, capturing the bead and finally getting to taste. It’s predominantly salty, slightly bitter - but there’s an underlying _something_ , a sweetness perhaps, fleeting, almost like it’s not there at all, and maybe Daryl’s imagining it, but. He wants more. More of that sweetness; so he licks at the tip of Rick’s cock, tongues at the slit there, and Rick lets out a breezy moan as his hands find purchase in Daryl’s hair. His hips don’t move, though, and Daryl thinks the man’s got too much control for someone about to get his dick sucked. He decides he has to make Rick lose it. He _wants to_. 

He laps at the head of Rick’s cock, finding a bit more of that taste he likes, and he sighs happily. The puff of air on his dick makes Rick shudder and Daryl smirks to himself before he licks down along the length from the tip to the balls, then back up. Rick’s breath quickens, but he’s still mostly motionless and Daryl won’t have it. He lifts one hand to Rick’s heavy sack and fondles gently, though he’s not sure exactly how to do it to make it nice; Rick seems to appreciate it, though, because this finally makes him jerk his hips forward a little. Pleased with himself, Daryl wets his lips, wraps the fingers of his other hand around the base of Rick’s cock and then takes the tip into his mouth. The hands in his hair tighten and he grunts, but it’s not painful enough to be unpleasant. He sort of likes when Rick’s rough with him, he discovers; he likes his hair pulled. It’s something to think about, for later. 

For now though, he gently sucks on the tip in his mouth, careful not to graze it with his teeth; the cock twitches and Daryl hums breathlessly, then takes it in further, as far as he can before the tip hits the back of his throat and he feels like choking. He fights down the urge, proud of himself for barely even having gag reflex left after weeks upon weeks of eating disgusting shit on the road. Rick’s cock, though, that’s hardly disgusting, _fuck_ , it’s the exact opposite, and had Daryl known that before, he would’ve done this so much sooner. 

He swallows around the thickness in his mouth and groans in appreciation when it earns him another jerk of Rick’s hips. It’s sort of painful, making his jaw go as slack as possible to fit the sizable cock, but he doesn’t mind this kind of discomfort at all. He slides his mouth up Rick’s erection then goes back down, and again, and again, and he loves how the tip goes all the way down to his throat, he loves how it feels there. He wishes he could fit the whole thing in his mouth but it’s impossible, it’s too long; what he can’t fit, he makes sure to caress nicely with his hand, the grip he has on the cock all warm and tight. 

And Rick’s enjoying it, he’s enjoying what Daryl’s doing to him; he’s unable to stop himself from thrusting his hips into Daryl’s face, fucking his mouth, and he’s making these low sounds that go straight to Daryl’s groin, and it’s such a thrill because it’s Daryl’s first time doing this and he needs all the encouragement he can get. And this, this is encouragement alright, Rick losing that control he had, pushing his cock deeper into Daryl’s mouth, gripping his hair tight to hold his head in place, and Daryl moans because it’s so hot, so good. He drops the hand that’s been fondling Rick’s balls to his own crotch, presses the palm against the bulge in his sweatpants and moans again. He slips the hand under the waistband and wraps it around his cock, then begins to stroke it in time to Rick’s thrusts which become faster, shallower, more frantic. 

It doesn’t take much longer from there, for either of them. Daryl’s already worked up from giving his first blowjob and Rick, Rick’s loving it, and he doesn’t hesitate to vocalize his enjoyment with those incredibly sexy, hoarse groans that Daryl thinks he’s going to dream about for years to come; Rick’s hands in his hair and his own hand stroking on his cock, and the beautiful cock in his mouth, it’s all so good, and Daryl can’t stop himself from making whiny noises that probably make him sound like a bitch in heat, but he doesn’t care because Rick keeps fucking him, and then Rick _talks to him_ , all low and deep and growly, saying shit like:

“God, you look so good, so good with your pretty lips wrapped around my cock... Fuck, darlin', you’re gonna make me cum, you’re gonna make me shoot my load down your throat… you want that, baby, don’cha, you want to taste my cum, yeah? So good for me-”

-and Daryl whimpers and swallows around him, once, twice, his throat constricting as he actually chokes in his eagerness to take him in even deeper, and then Rick’s cock twitches and spills down Daryl’s throat in thick spurts as Rick calls out his name breathlessly. Daryl swallows as much as he can, most of it, and the taste is so good, he feels like he never wants to taste anything else; and then he’s coming too, with his mouth still on Rick’s cock so his whine is thankfully muffled.

He slowly eases himself off of the softening dick, pulls up Rick’s pants, and then Rick immediately pulls him up to his feet in order to press an insistent kiss to Daryl’s lips. He doesn’t seem to mind the taste of himself; he kisses Daryl thoroughly until he goes even weaker in the knees and can barely stand. Only then, when Daryl’s all but melted into putty in his arms, does he break the kiss.

“You were so amazing,” he says, wonderment lacing his voice, and his blue eyes are so bright and filled with the same awe, Daryl almost wants to escape their gaze. “Dunno where you learned, but I’m damn grateful.”

“Ain’t learned nothin’,” Daryl replies and winces at the soreness in his throat. His voice comes out raspy, sort of scratchy. “‘twas my first time. Ain’t done none of this gay stuff afore,” he adds. 

Rick looks at him strangely, then licks his lips. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “but your voice. You sound fucking sexy like this, you know that? Christ. If I were ten years younger, I’d be ready to go again just hearing you right now.”

Daryl snorts, slaps him on the arm. “Ya better git naked, cowboy,” he commands playfully. “If we gotta shower, we gotta shower. Don’t want nobody comin’ here ‘n seein’ my bare ass.”

Rick nods, but then wastes another couple of minutes pulling Daryl into a slow, lazy kiss which feels more like a love story than any of their previous kisses. It’s not as feverish, not so focused on taking. It’s like the silent communication between them out there beyond the walls, it says things in the same way; and Daryl knows what Rick means with this kiss, he understands, and God fucking damn it, he feels the same. He always has. 

The shower they take afterwards is actually quick and efficient with minimal wandering hands and stolen kisses. It’s a good thing, too, because as soon as they come out of the bathroom, both wrapped in towels and nothing else, Michonne meets them at the door.

“Took you guys long enough,” she announces and it’s unclear whether she means the bathroom time or the getting together. In any case, she’s right about both. 

“Sorry,” Rick apologizes. It doesn’t sound very sincere because his face shows how pleased he is with himself and his day so far. 

Daryl can’t blame him. He’s pretty fucking pleased himself. 

Michonne rolls her eyes. “Breakfast’s on the table. Carol said you gotta make sure this guy eats,” she says, nodding towards Daryl. “Make him take seconds if you can. He’s gonna need the energy,” she adds with a smirk. 

Daryl groans. “Yer gonna make fun of us forever, ain’cha,” he mutters. 

She lifts an eyebrow at his hoarse voice. “Damn, man, now I sure as hell am,” she assures with a grin. “Now off you go. Let a woman have some privacy. And guys,” she calls after them when they head to Rick’s bedroom, “if you wanna make this _topless_ thing part of your fashion choice, just know I’m not going to complain!”

They get back to Rick’s bedroom where Daryl finds his clothes. Most are dirty, so he hesitates a moment. Contrary to what must be popular belief, he doesn’t actually enjoy being covered in gore and shit, it’s just easier than finding fresh clothes nowadays. But Rick retrieves a black shirt and a pair of jeans from the dresser and hands them to him. 

“Told you, guys hit a clothing depot on their last run. We’ve got lots. I figure these should fit you,” he explains with a smile. 

“... any chance for underwear?” Daryl asks, and he curses himself for sounding so shy. Like he hasn’t just sucked the guy’s dick within the last hour. 

“Yep, here you go,” Rick throws him a pair of boxers. He then respectfully turns around and doesn’t look while Daryl gets dressed. When they’re both decent, Daryl risks one more chaste kiss on Rick’s lips and gets rewarded with a smile.

“You know, I want to tell everyone about this,” the man says.

Daryl shrugs. “Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ ya,” he says. “Sorta told Aaron already. And Carol.”

At that, Rick blinks, surprised. “When? I mean… you were here asleep all the time. When’d you get a chance to tell them?”

“Told ‘em before it happened,” Daryl replies nonchalantly. “Kinda… when you offered yer bedroom so’s I coulda jacked it. Sorta blurted it out to Aaron ‘n he made it sound like. Y’know. Like you was propositionin’ me or somethin’.”

“I was, I think,” Rick assures him, “but I wasn't sure, and probably would’ve chickened out if you didn’t… you know. Make me come to bed with you. Original plan was… Uh, I kinda hoped I’d get to listen in at the door. To you. Doing it. Because I didn’t think you’d want to do anything like that with me. I know, I know, it’s prime creeper material-”

“Thought ya wanted to watch,” Daryl interrupts him. “Thought to let ya. Woulda been hot.”

Rick chuckles, then, relieved. He touches Daryl’s hand tentatively and beams when Daryl twines their fingers together. They head downstairs for breakfast like that, hand in hand. 

Daryl eats two helpings of the fruit salad Carol left for them in the kitchen. Rick chats with Carl when the teenager comes down for his breakfast, and all the while he’s still holding Daryl’s hand. People come and go, and nobody so much as looks at them all weird. Not that Daryl expected them to, but still, it’s nice. Would’ve been weird if he had to shout at them now that he’s so ridiculously happy. 

Because he is. He’s so happy, he can’t believe it’s even possible to be this overjoyed about anything. He’s giddy with it to the point that he openly smiles at his family and even laughs at a terrible joke Tara makes about motorcycles. Rick looks at him then, proud and warm, and Daryl feels the swell of this perfect emotion in his chest, overwhelming, insatiable. Makes him feel indestructible. He leans in and gently kisses Rick on the lips, ignoring the ensuing catcalling and cheers from the small audience.

“Guess he really is nicer when he sleeps,” Abraham concludes and gets himself a third helping of the salad. “Good for y’all.”

And it is. It's good. 

Daryl doesn’t have trouble sleeping that night, or the night after that. The orgasms probably help, but he truly believes Rick’s arms around him as he drifts off are what makes all the difference. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thanks for reading, leaving kudos and especially for commenting. 
> 
> Hopefully the next fic I write will be slightly more ambitious than this sad excuse for (even more) porn ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes :)


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